


Give Me Strength

by orphan_account



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: 30s! Stans, A LOT of Angst, Anal Sex, Angst, Drug Use, Fluff, Incest, Like really slow, M/M, Mentions of Rape, Slow Burn, Stancest - Freeform, Stanley has a mullet, Twincest, Violence, What if Ford didn't get sucked into the portal AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:54:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28829985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Ford has uncovered secrets about the universe not meant for human eyes. Having no one else he can trust, he sends a postcard to his brother - who he hasn't spoken to in ten years.
Relationships: Ford Pines/Stan Pines
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	1. Reunion

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! It's my first time contributing to the fandom, I hope you enjoy. This first chapter isn't super special, but things will really start to pick up pace into the second. This fic is basically a take on what if Ford didn't get sucked into the portal, but things were still messy between the two. So it takes place in canon, with some spice. Notes will be at the end after this one. I would also like to mention Stancest doesn't start until about midway but then gets pretty explicit, if you're just reading for some brother interaction between the two. Please enjoy!

The snow outside is relentless, blurring anything that could possibly be seen from the window, and northern winds shove into the cabin with blunt force, howling bitter cold into any of the cracks in the walls. Ford is anxiously waiting in the living room, pacing back and forth, and back and forth. He doesn’t know what day it is, or month. He’s on his third bottle of Ambien, but it hasn’t put him near anything that could be considered a good night’s rest. The last time he slept, he remembers waking up in a cold sweat, chest heaving, visions of eyes swirling in his mind. 

Or whatever is left of it. 

Ford is starting to hypothesize that his mind may not really be  _ his _ any longer.

He walks to the frostbitten window, looking out at the cold, sheer, vast whiteness. It burns his sleepless eyes, and he pulls the blinds shut. The way he’s sauntering around is like that of a caged animal, nowhere to go; trapped. He’s trapped, and not just in the cabin. He is his own prison, his mind turning him into a slave. Ford goes over again and again in his head what must be done. He’s in survival mode, and he can’t stop. His lists scatter the floor, his first journal tucked away in his coat pocket; he can’t part with it, not yet. 

A distant chattering of whispers catches his attention, sending jolts of anxiety up his spine. The lights are flickering, and the room is getting dark. He counts how many times the lights turn on and off, scribbles it down, every hair on his body sticking up as the whispers draw closer and closer. 

THUD, THUD. 

_ ‘This is it,’ _ Ford thinks, and swoops over to his desk to grab his crossbow, nocking an arrow. Whatever he’s been waiting for, it’s at the front door. He had long ago boarded up most of the windows, slid bookshelves and chairs to block potential entrances. The front door is the only way in and out, front window the only view of the outside. Steadying his arms, he takes aim for whatever is about to be in front of him. Carefully, he turns the knob of the door, heart pounding out of his chest. In one swift motion, he uses his foot to slam the door wide open, gripping the bow in both six fingered hands, ready to shoot. 

His eyes shut tight, he yells, “Show yourself! Have you come to steal my eyes?!”

“ _ Jesus Christ _ , thanks for such a warm welcome, Ford.” 

Ford’s eyes snap open and he sees himself. Wait no, he sees his brother, Stanley. His bow is lowered for a second, eyes darting around behind his twin for any sign of movement in the snow, the forest. Instantly, he grabs Stan’s arm, squeezing it tight and pulling him inside the cabin, slamming the door shut with him. He’s shining a flashlight in Stan’s eyes, relieved to see the pupils respond. Stan’s squirming in his grasp, protesting and cussing.

“What the actual  _ fuck _ has gotten into you?!” Stan snarls, shoving Ford off of him. 

Ford is panting, completely at a loss for words and breath. His hands are jittery, mind going a million miles per second. 

“I’m sorry, Stan. I had to make sure-,”  _ That you’re real. _ That’s what he wants to say. Truth be told, at first he didn’t understand why Stan was here, then he remembered sending a postcard. How long ago had that been? Ford wishes now that this wasn’t his real twin, standing in front of him, staring daggers right into his very soul. At least he knew how to deal with everything else. 

“I had to make sure you weren’t being followed.” Ford finishes, putting his crossbow down next to the door, taking a hand and rubbing at the side of his face. With Stan inside, he takes a good look at him. Ten years have gone by, and Stan has aged well. His shoulders are broad, chin scruffy, and his hair - well it’s a mullet, but it doesn’t look bad by any means. There’s melting snow on his jacket, his jeans loose and ripped in the knees. Ford can barely believe he’s here in the flesh. 

“You’re acting insane,” Stan grumbles after awhile, taking a look around the living room. There’s piles of papers everywhere, bones on the floor and in tanks, and other strange oddities placed on top of shelves. He wonders if yes actually, his brother is insane- or maybe he’s just stupid for thinking his brother sent for him after ten years to hug things out. Stan had been preparing himself to see Ford his entire drive up to Oregon, and this mess is way out of the ballpark of anything he was imagining he was going to lay witness to. There's symbols drawn on walls, furniture moved to block doors. When he sees the specimen jars, he frowns and turns to Ford with a heated glare. 

“So, I drove all the way out here for an arrow to the throat and a ticket to the circus? You act like you weren’t even expecting me to show up. Your postcard seemed like it was urgent, but I don’t see any fuckin’ emergency.”

Ford bristles at that, “My work is very important,  _ Stanley _ . I have to take precautions so it doesn’t fall into the wrong hands!” 

Stan growls, frustratingly throwing his arms up, “You’re unbelievable! It’s been ten years and still all you have to talk about is your voodoo-magic-whacko science? How about ‘it’s good to finally see you again,  _ brother! _ I’m glad you’re fucking  _ alive! _ ’ ” 

Ford is taken aback by his twin's statement for a split second. Alive? What had Stanley been up to in their ten years apart? Eyebrows furrowing, he shakes his head- now is not the time. In fact, there may  _ never _ be a time.

"Stan I wouldn't of sent for you if I didn't need you. My work, it's gotten out of hand," his voice is calmer, softer, and he can tell Stan is listening to him. "I... I don't know who I can trust anymore." Ford stares at the floor, but feels eyes on him in every possible direction. 

Whatever else Stan wanted to say died in his throat, instead he walks towards his brother, eyes searching him. He's just as much of a mess as the rest of the house. Ford has dark circles under his eyes, his skin white as a sheet. Stan thinks if he shined a light on him, he may burst into flames. He looks weak and tired. Feeling his original anger and resolve to point fingers at his brother for what happened in their teens break, Stan lets out a deep sigh. 

"Ford, you can trust me. Whatever you need me here for,  _ you can trust me _ ." He says, resting a hand on the other's shoulder. "I'm your twin, I'll understand."

Ford meets Stan's gaze and takes a sharp breath, "Follow me." 

The elevator ride feels like it takes an hour, it goes from cold to colder the further down they go. Stan feels the pit of his stomach coil in anxiety. His brother is like a statue, staring blankly at the wall as they descend.  _ 'If I touched him, would he crumble?' _ Stan feels his fingers twitch at the thought, but before he can bring a hand to up to his twin's shoulder, they finally hit bottom. The door slides open, Ford briskly walking out into the chamber. He's quickly checking monitors, typing in numbers, and all Stan can do is gape at the surroundings, feet moving one by one in the most sluggish walk he's ever taken. His eyes are glued to a giant triangular machine behind the glass shield. When did Ford build things? 

"So uh... What is...," Stan sputters, too dumbstruck for words. There is nothing about this he understands. 

"A trans-universal gateway. A punched hole in a weak spot in our dimension," Ford says curtly. "My life's work." 

Stan's mouth is dry, "I never knew you went to school for machines."

"I didn't. I got my doctorate in quantum physics. I came here to find anomalies," Ford's voice suddenly drops an octave, "This ah, is mostly the work of my assistant." 

"So you made it to your dream school?" Stan asks quietly, stuffing his hands into his pockets. 

Ford is silent for a solid minute, looking at the portal and feeling his chest burn.

"I did not," Ford's eyes narrow. " _ Someone _ had made sure that possibility was ruled out." 

The anger rises again, but Stan stomps it back down. He's not here to fight. 

Ford continues.

"I created the portal to unlock mysteries about our universe, but I've learned it can just as easily destroy it. I turned it off, for good, and I've hidden away the instructions on how to operate it," Ford reaches into his coat and pulls out his first journal, "My journals. This is the only one left." 

Brown eyes meet, pleading into each other. Stan feels his heart ache, staring into his brother's gaze. It had been forever since he had seen him, forever since he had looked at Ford's unique yet familiar irises. His eyes look glassy and suddenly he's handing him the book.

"Do you remember our boat? How we were going to sail around the world?"

Elation builds in Stan's chest, yes of course he remembers that. It's his most cherished, fondest memory of them - their childhood dreams. A smile comes to Stan's lips, thinking he knows where Ford is going with this conversation, but after all these years, his brother is more different than he anticipated.

"I want you to take my journal, get on a boat, and sail as far away as possible - to the ends of the Earth, and bury it." Ford turns around and looks at the portal, hands clenched at his sides. If Ford is feeling anything, Stan doesn't see it. All Stan sees is red.

" _ What? _ "

He's stomping towards his brother, taking a fistful of his shirt. The rest of his resolve not to fight completely gone. Stanley's eyes are a fire that meet an equally hot flame. 

"You  _ fucking _ bastard. After  _ ALL _ these years, you  _ finally _ reach out to me and it's to tell me to get as far away from you as possible?!"

Ford is glaring death at his brother, " _ You _ have no idea what I've been through."

And that's it. That's the final straw. Stan throws his brother to the ground, blind with rage. Ford gets up quick, brushing himself off and continuing to stare Stanley down.

Stan's voice is poisoned with hurt and fury, "I've been to prison in  _ three _ different countries, I had to  _ chew _ my way out of a trunk - I have a  _ fucking mullet, _ Ford!" He throws a punch and hits his twin square in the jaw. "Where have  _ you _ been? In your fancy woodsy cabin, hoarding all your college money!" 

Ford replies only in a grunt and a lunge towards his brother, wrestling him to the ground. Stanley slams Ford away with his foot, making the other groan in pain as he slides against the ground. Stan pants, looking down at his brother. 

"You want me to get rid of this book?" Stan takes out his lighter, "I'll get rid of it. For good." 

"My research!" Ford cries out and rushes to Stan, tackling him down. They struggle, Stanley putting Ford in a chokehold and slamming him against a wall. Ford uses the opportunity to twist positions, grabbing his brother by the neck. Stan's foot comes out to kick Ford in the stomach, and Ford once again falls to the rocky ground, clutching his journal like a lifeline. Stan tries to get the book from him, but Ford won't budge. They're playing tug of war with the journal, practically ripping each other to shreds in the process. Using Stan's own dirty tricks against him, Ford slams a firm boot into Stan's chest, not anticipating the absolute bloodcurdling scream that erupts from him, and then he collapses. 

"Oh my god, Stanley, I'm so sorry." He's over Stan in an instant, looking at the burn branded into his shoulder. Before he can do or say anything, Stan uppercuts him.

"You're so fucking  _ selfish _ . For once in your life, can you think about  _ anyone _ but yourself?!"

Ford gasps for air, looking up at his twin. The journal is held tight in his six fingered hold, and he's inching himself away from Stan. 

And Stan is backing away from him, eyes fixated above Ford's. 

"S-Sixer..."

Turning around as fast as he humanly can, Ford watches in mind boggling horror as his portal thrums with power. He jumps towards Stan, grabbing him and covering him with his body - a human shield. The portal makes the ground shake, Stan feels himself floating in his brother's arms, gravity losing all power and purpose, and then  _ WHAM _ . They're crushed to the floor. Ford is scrambling to get up, journal thrown to the side like it had no value at all anymore. Ford rushes for the control panels, computers, and makes sure everything is in order. Everything was off, and the switch hadn't been touched.  _ 'What was that? What happened?' _ Ford's head is swimming in thought but only one makes it to his voice.

"Stanley, are you okay?!" 

Stan groans in pain, the fresh burn and the slammed ribcage not exactly his idea of a good time. He's rolled over by Ford, who inspects him thoroughly. Twelve fingers grab hold of Stan's face, brown eyes meeting brown eyes, stirring with worry. Stan brings a hand up to Ford's shoulder, sliding it up into his hair, before passing out. Ford calls out for his brother again, shaking him gently, when the lights begin to flicker. 

Stanford holds his twin close, as his intuition screams at him that they are not alone. 


	2. Not Safe

The basement is pitch black and silent. 

Ford can feel the heavy weight of his brother on his side, fully leaning on him for support in his unconscious state. There’s gentle winds coming in from somewhere, an odd occurrence in a fully sealed cave a mile below the crust of the Earth. Hushed voices are edging in the corners of the room, and hot panic begins to swelter in Ford’s body. He clutches at his brother, shaking him again and again. 

“Stanley! _Lee!”_ The cries are met with nothing, and the whispering is starting to branch out in volume, frantically searching for a host to latch to. It’s a mixture of perceivably male and female pitches, running in tandem with one another in a perfect cryptic unison that makes absolutely no sense to the human tongue. Ford’s body tenses with the visceral reaction the body has when hearing nails claw down a chalkboard, sparks of uncomfortable nerves lighting in his system. 

_~Hissssss sssss Hushhhh hhhh hushhhh ss Shhhh. SHHHHhHHhhhhhhhh._

_Ta ka’ ta ka, doe by ga-ya SHHHHHHhhhhhhhh to Tolhhhhhh.. Au secours la Ah. sShhhhhhhhh…a ˙˙_

_˙ɥɥɥɥɥɥɥɥɥS ˙ɥ∀ ˙sɹnoɔǝs n∀ ˙ɥɥɥɥɥɥlo┴ ˙ɥɥɥɥHHHHHS ˙ɐʎ-ɐƃ ʎ_

_q ǝop 'ɐʞ ɐʇ ’ɐʞ ɐ┴ ˙ɥɥɥɥɥɥɥɥHHɥHHHHS ˙ɥɥɥɥS ˙ɥɥɥɥsnɥ 'ɥɥɥɥsnH ˙ssssssᴉH ˙˙˙ɥɥɥɥɥɥɥɥɥS ˙ɥ∀ ˙sɹnoɔǝs n∀ ˙ɥɥɥɥɥɥlo┴ ˙ɥɥɥɥɥɥ_

_ɥɥHHHHHHS ˙ɐʎ-ɐƃ ʎq ǝop 'ɐʞ ɐʇ ’ɐʞ ɐ┴ ˙ɥɥɥɥɥɥɥɥHHɥHHHHS ˙ɥɥɥɥS ˙ɥɥɥɥsnɥ 'ɥɥɥ_

_ɥsnH ˙ssssssᴉH~_

  
  


There’s an awful thump in the distance, and a yell that sounds like a child asking for help. It’s banging on the walls? They’re banging on the walls? Ford squeezes his eyes tight, burying his face into his brother. There is absolutely no way to tell if these voices are in the room with them or all in his head. After allowing bill entrance to his mind, everything has been fuddled and played with. His ego got the better of him, and now all he does know is that he is in terrible danger, and with Stan this close - he is, too. 

Banging on metal, that’s what it sounds like. Whatever it is sounds like it’s miles away, but Stanford having been studying for so long knows better to expect the unexpected. His eyes look up at the portal. It couldn’t possibly be coming from it, could it? He had sworn it was turned off, that he was the only one who could turn it on. Bill could never touch it unless - unless Bill was inside him. 

Panicked, Ford jolts to his feet, yelling, “BILL! Show yourself!” 

There is no response. He looks down at his hands shakily. Has he really succumbed to madness? A schizo-like state of horrid paranoid delusions? Ford sits down next to Stan’s body, looking at him with a concerned brow. There’s relief when he sees the steady rise and fall of his twin’s chest - a sign of life. Thank god he didn’t kill him. Ford thinks the last thing he would want right now is to be left alone here, with all these voices.

All trains of thought are interrupted by three consecutive bangs that absolutely came from in front of them. A muffled voice yells out, _“Self-ish! Self-ish!”_ and the banging continues, like a child frantically knocking on a parent’s bedroom door. Ford looks down at Stan, who’s completely limp and out cold. The knocking is getting louder and closer yet. 

They can’t stay down here. 

Ford takes hold of one of Stanley’s arms, carefully moving it around his shoulders, before hoisting his brother up onto his back. Ford gasps. Stan is much heavier than him, and Ford’s legs are shaking as he tries to take them both to the elevator. His breath is coming out in strained puffs as he engages in the most exercise he’s gotten in, well, a very long time. He’s determined to get away from the banging and voices, to seal off this godforsaken basement for all of eternity. Whatever has happened can die down here for all he cares. 

There isn’t any warning before Ford is thrown up into a wall. At first, he thinks Stan has woken up and is trying to continue their fistfight, but Stanley is face down on the ground. The assailant is much worse than he’d imagined. Ford looks up and he’s staring into two black holes, where eyes _should_ be. There’s horns - antlers - and hands with three fingers. It is all bone and no flesh. Ford pales at the observation.

The undead? No. _A banshee._

It shrieks and climbs up the nearest wall like a cockroach, head turning a full three-sixty, before rushing towards Ford, antlers up. There’s tearing sounds and a cuss when sharp edges meet flesh. Ford grits his teeth, his side definitely having been cut. The dumb, blind thing is stuck with it’s antlers in the wall and Ford is even worse off, stuck between a hard place and a banshee of all things. He knows if he’s quiet long enough, it will vanish, turning back into a gaseous form. Banshees are attracted to dark noise, validating that the voices earlier weren’t in Ford’s head. Whether that’s better or worse isn’t something he wants to think about right now - he’s caught up staring at the creature, waiting for it to turn back into the black smoke it truly is. 

“Y-You left me.” 

It’s a soft, pitiful whine in a voice he painfully recognizes. Ford’s eyes widen and dart over to Stan, who's still head down, but his body is shaking. 

“It...it was supposed to be the two of us. Forever.” It’s accompanied by soft grunts, sobs of pain. Ford’s heart is leaping out at the sound of his brother’s delirious voice - and it is unfortunate that he’s not the only one who's listening. Clacking its head right, then left, the banshee loosens itself from the wall, Ford sweating bullets as he watches it draw back. Its feet tap against the floor lightly, so horridly graceful in its movements. Stan is silent and still again, breathing easy and undoubtedly unaware of anything happening around him. Ford wants to charge at it, swing at it, do anything to get it to stop looming over his brother like the reaper himself. 

His eyes glance over at his walkman, left at his desk. Oh so quietly, he walks over to it, pressing the volume at full capacity and making sure there’s a cassette inside. 

“Hey!” He yells at the creature, gripping the walkman in one hand and breathing hard, “Get away from my brother!” 

The banshee lets out an ear splitting cry, running to Ford on all fours. Running into the portal room, he presses the on button to the walkman, and the sound of _Blondie’s_ voice singing has never been better. Ford chucks the device into the far corner of the room, tucking and rolling as the beast runs by. He sprinting back to where Stan lays in front of the elevator doors, grabbing him and wincing in pain, shoving them both into the dinky space before smashing a hand on the up button. He watches the skeletal monster scream and lunge at the wall, the walkman getting crushed under its feet. 

_‘There goes $150,’_ Ford thinks bitterly, but feels a shift in his arms and his attention is on his brother, who’s slick with sweat and a six fingered hand to the forehead confirms a fever. Ford bites his lip, he should’ve gotten Stan upstairs quicker. 

There’s a few gasps and grumbles as Ford carries Stan out of the elevator shaft. He drags him over to the couch, wiping the sweat that has formed at his brow. The sight is not a good one. Stanley’s skin is flush with fever, breathing hitching and small whimpers of pain rattling from him every few minutes. 

“You better not be dying on me,” Ford can’t help but say it - he’s got a lump growing in his throat and knots all up inside his chest. There’s a dull stinging on his side, where he got cut from the banshee, but it’s not nearly as bad as the emotions ebbing and flowing throughout his whole body. He gets up from the edge of the couch and goes to get a bowl of ice cold water and a washcloth. Raiding the cabinets, he grabs a first aid kit and takes the whole thing with him, along with a bottle of ethanol. He slides an arm over the pill cabinet to let them all fall in the case, both of them are going to need it, he thinks.

He’s back at the side of the couch, unzipping the parka and removing Stan’s shirt. Ford looks at the front side of his twin first, using a gloved hand to feel and push against ribs, making sure there’s nothing out of place in the bruised areas. When he feels a little certain there’s no broken bones, he rolls Stanley over - his breath hitches. The burn is of the third degree. It’s swelling an angry red color and oozing blood. Ford’s shoulders deflate. 

“I did this,” He mutters to himself, the lump in his throat getting harder to swallow. Using the ice water, he takes the cloth and wets it, gently dabbing at the wound, trying to soak up as much blood as possible. It’s clear the burn doesn’t want to let up, so he pours a good amount of burn cream on his hand, rubbing it into the scorched flesh. Ford grabs a large patch from the first aid kit and smooths it over top of it. Sighing, knowing that’s all he can do now, his attention turns to his own gushing side. 

His sweater slips off and he twists to look at his left side, shocked by how deep the cut actually is. Cursing to himself, he pulls out a curved need, thread, and a fresh cloth from his kit. The cloth goes into his mouth and he bites down a muffled scream when he pours the ethanol on himself. Ford takes no time to start sewing himself back up, needle going in and out, through and through, his skin, pulling back together what once was apart. He snips the excess thread, spitting out the rag and takes bandages to wrap around his lower torso. This will just have to do. 

Tired, sore, and worried sick he returns to the couch. He gently redresses Stanley, tending to his burn every now and then by lifting up his shirt and changing the bandage. Ford sits in a chair near Stanley, carefully watching him like a nurse would her patient, ready to do whatever is needed when he wakes up - or goes south.

“Stanford, don’t leave me.” 

Ford snorts awake at the sound of his name. When did he fall asleep? _How_ did he fall asleep? 

“Ford, _please._ ” 

Ford’s eyes, tucked behind thick glasses, dart over to Stan; wondering if he’s awake, if the fever is gone. The hope dies off, seeing his brother still unconscious in the throes of hard recovery. 

“Ford...please don’t go. It was...supposed to be _us_.” Stan grates out, face scrunched in a grimace against a couch pillow. Getting up from his chair across from his brother, Ford lets out a sob he didn’t know he was holding, and smooths back long brunette hair from the other’s face. 

“I know. Forever. It’s going to be us forever, Stanley.”

The fever finally breaks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are greatly appreciated! I don't have a beta, so any mistakes are an oops to myself. Also yeah, I like to think Stanford is into girl pop singers like Dipper, lol.


End file.
